


i feel warmer in the cold

by almostoutofminutes



Series: Christmas [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas, Fluff, M/M, POV Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:38:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostoutofminutes/pseuds/almostoutofminutes
Summary: The five Christmases (or, more specifically, the five dogs) that brought Scott and Stiles together.





	i feel warmer in the cold

**Author's Note:**

> This is my offering for the 2017 Sciles Secret Santa fic exchange. I found it really rewarding last year, so I'm extremely glad I could be a part of it again this year. 
> 
> My mystery giftee requested a fic with cuddling, holiday traditions, and family. There's a little bit of each of those in this story, so I hope they enjoy it! Also, another big thank you goes out to the mods of the fic exchange! I'm turning this in late, so kudos to them for dealing with me. 
> 
> I was originally going to try and write an entire story based on the plot of the movie 12 Dogs of Christmas, but life got in the way, so I went a simpler idea instead. I did, however, keep the dog part of this fic intact. 
> 
> The title comes from "Time to Fall in Love" by Lindsey Stirling featuring Alex Gaskarth. 
> 
> Enjoy, and have a wonderful holiday season!

Dakota is a rough collie. Before the day his family makes the hour-long drive to Second Chance Dog Sanctuary, Stiles doesn’t even know what a rough collie _is_. 

“Do you remember Lassie? The dog from those old movies we watched last week?” his mom asks, twisting in the passenger seat so she can smile at him. “That’s what a rough collie is. They’re an amazing breed, very smart and gentle. Trust me, you’re going to love this.”

The thing is, Stiles didn’t really _like_ those old movies. They were slow and boring. He’s much more into Batman. But he doesn’t say anything, not wanting her to look at him like she does when he breaks one of his toys or refuses to take a bath. 

The scenery slides across the window like a roll of fabric, the mottled browns of the forest shifting gradually into the bright greens and blues of open fields, everything lit by a soft November sun. Normally he would be taking advantage of the beautiful weekend weather by running around outside with his action figures, recreating the stories in the comic books he keeps asking for. He tries to imagine playing with a Lassie-dog instead, running around like the boy from the movie, but the image won’t come. 

He twists the hem of his t-shirt around and around his fingers. “Are we almost there?”

“About ten more minutes,” his dad says. Stiles glances at the rear view mirror and sees the crinkles around his dad’s eyes, the sure sign of a relaxed smile. He wonders why they’re both so excited. He wonders why he’s not. He knows most kids his age would kill to get a dog. What six-year-old _wouldn’t_ want something cute and fluffy and full of energy to play around with? 

Stiles isn’t thinking about fun, though. He’s thinking about the time police officers brought dogs to the school to search the high school kids’ lockers. They were big and dark and sleek --German Shepherds, his dad later told him-- and the kids weren’t allowed to touch them. 

He’s thinking about the time he snuck downstairs late at night for some water and spied on his parents watching a movie in the living room. The screen had been brightly lit with the sight of a big, hulking dog slavering at the mouth and trying to attack a woman and a little boy. He went back upstairs without getting his water. 

He’s thinking about the time he got to school on a Monday and all of the kids were huddled on one side of the jungle gym, kneeling in the wood chips. They were trying to find blood, they said. A little boy had been mauled by a dog right here while waiting for his sister and mother to get out of a Girl Scout meeting in the school cafeteria. 

All of those images are swirling around in his head when the car turns onto a gravel path, the movement bumpy enough that Stiles accidentally bites his tongue. A white house sits at the end of the driveway, dwarfed by the hulking red barn behind it. There are chain link fences sticking out on either side, curling around the back of the house like wings. As they get closer, the sound of barking dogs starts to filter through the closed windows. 

“We’re here!” his mom says, which Stiles finds wholly unnecessary. She flashes him another smile, her hands clasped together excitedly. 

The car grinds to a halt right in front of the house. As soon as the engine shuts off, the barking gets that much louder, all of the different voices blending together into one chaotic mess. Stiles’ grip on his shirt tightens until the collar is slipping over his collarbone with how roughly he’s tugging it down. His parents immediately unbelt and slip out of the car, and he wonders if he could get away with just staying in his seat. The idea is shot as soon as his mom looks back at him, her grin expectant. 

He climbs out, his tennis shoes crunching down on the gravel. He takes the hand his mom offers him, his hands feeling clammy compared to hers. 

Before they can do anything else, the front door of the house opens, and a pretty woman with curly black hair steps outside, a big ring of keys held in one hand. “Are you the Stilinskis?” she asks, her eyes squinting against the sunshine as she shuts the door behind her. 

“That’s us,” Claudia says. “Are you Melissa?”

The woman nods, swinging the keys around one finger. She smiles at them. “We still have a lot of paperwork to fill out, but would you like to meet him first?”

 _No_ , Stiles thinks, just as his mom hums in excitement. “Yes, please!” 

Still grinning, Melissa leads them around to one side of the house, where a gate is set into the chain link fence. Stiles expects her to spend at least a couple of minutes sorting through the dozens of keys in her hand, but she finds the right one within seconds, the hinges squealing as she tugs open the gate. 

“Scott!” she calls, beckoning for Stiles and his parents to follow her through. “Bring out Dakota!” 

There’s a distant voice answering her back, but Stiles doesn’t pay attention to it, too busy seizing up at the horde of dogs currently sprinting around the side of the house and towards them. 

He knows he shouldn’t be frightened. His parents wouldn’t have let him come back here if these dogs were dangerous, and if he looks closely, all he can see are lolling tongues and wagging tails, no sign of foaming mouths or snapping teeth anywhere. His mom is already kneeling on the ground in delight, her hands landing on the first ball of fluff she can find, a golden retriever with white around its muzzle. 

He knows all that even as he stumbles backwards into his dad, almost tripping in his haste to get behind him, a noise slipping out of his mouth that he would normally be embarrassed about. Most of the dogs are distracted by Claudia and Melissa, but a few of them come over to investigate Stiles and his dad. One in particular, a squat little thing with a smushed face and an underbite, comes around his dad’s legs to start sniffing at Stiles. 

“Dad, Dad, Dad,” Stiles starts babbling, clutching at his dad’s jacket. When the dog lets out a sharp bark, its teeth gleaming, his grip gets tighter, practically climbing Noah like a tree. 

“Woah, Stiles, it’s okay,” Noah says, surprised, twisting awkwardly to look back at him.

“No, no, get away!” Stiles yells when the dog keeps sniffing him. It just barks again, completely unbothered. 

There’s a bit of fumbling before Noah is hoisting Stiles onto his back in an impromptu piggy-back ride. “Stiles, what’s wrong?” The position makes it impossible to see his dad’s expression, but he already sounds like he does when Stiles insists the foods on his plate can’t touch or asks him to check the closet for monsters again. 

“I don’t like dogs,” he blurts out before immediately clamping his mouth shut. His mother is frozen amid a roiling mass of paws and fur, staring at him with concern. Melissa has paused, too, eyes flicking between all three of them, eyebrows high on her forehead. 

“What?” Noah says, breaking the silence. He cranes his neck to look at Stiles with one eye. His brow is furrowed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Stiles shrugs, burying his face in the warm fabric of Noah’s shirt. “You and Mom were really excited. I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“Oh, honey….” Claudia trails off. Stiles hears the faint sound of footsteps, and when she speaks again, her hand is resting lightly on his back. “You should have told us. You should never be afraid to tell us how you feel.”

“What don’t you like about dogs, buddy?” Noah asks, still awkwardly facing away from this conversation. 

“They’re--” His head snaps up and he cuts off with a flinch when a big dog that looks like a wolf comes around to Noah’s front and starts sniffing at Stiles’ shoe. 

“Would you like to take a moment?” Melissa interjects, nodding towards the gate, already gathering collars in both hands to hold them back, and Noah nods at her. They can’t be more than ten feet inside the fence, but it feels like ages before they’ve actually made it to the gate, Noah gently wading through the sea of dogs that trail after them. Stiles winces at every bark, every yap, every brush of a tail, until Noah and Claudia are squeezing through the gate and shutting it behind them.

Noah sets him down immediately, turning around and kneeling so that he’s at eye level, his hands on Stiles’ arms. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t want to admit that he’s scared. His dad is always so fearless. They don’t tell him anything, but he sometimes overhears them talking about his dad’s cases. He sees the gun his dad carries, and he’s sat through the lectures about never touching it. He sees the bandages his dad comes home in some days, the way his mom frets over it when she thinks Stiles isn’t looking, the way Noah laughs and tells her it’s nothing. His dad has probably never been afraid. 

But they’re always telling him to be honest. “They’re scary. What if the dog hates me? What if he bites me?” 

Claudia runs a hand through his hair, her hand coming down to rest on his cheek. “Honey, he won’t hate you. He’s going to love you. As long as you don’t hurt him, he’ll never hurt you.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles has met a handful of dogs over the years, mostly at friends’ houses, and they never seemed to warm up to him. Why would this dog be different?

“Positive,” Noah confirms. “What makes you think he would hurt you?” 

He doesn’t want to explain himself, especially the bit about sneaking downstairs and spying on the movie they were watching, so he just shrugs. 

His parents exchange a look before Claudia nods. Stiles isn’t sure what she’s nodding at, since no actually said anything, but he goes along with it when she grabs his hand. “Would you like to meet him? We can take it slow. He’ll stay on his leash, okay?”

Stiles hesitates, eye flicking nervously to the backyard for the first time since they left it. The dogs have scattered now that there are no new people to investigate, some of them still swirling around Melissa like she’s the eye of a storm. A new figure has joined her, a dark-haired kid holding a bright green leash. It’s impossible to tell which dog the leash is attached to in the swirling mass of ears and fur. 

Stiles looks back up at his parents. They’re both smiling at him. He expected them to look like they’re waiting for him, like he’s been told to finish his vegetables and he hasn’t yet, but they don’t. 

He nods. “Okay.”

His mom stays next to him, hand still clasped in his, but Noah moves back towards the fence. “Melissa?” he calls out across the lawn. “Would it be possible to meet Dakota out here, on his leash?”

“Absolutely,” she says. She moves as if to grab the leash, but hesitates at the last second before pulling her hand back. She leans down towards the boy as if speaking. He looks up at her and nods, and then they’re walking over together, the boy still holding the leash. 

It becomes apparent, then, which dog is attached to the leash. He’s not as big as the dog in the scary movie or some of the dogs still milling around the yard, but he’s still pretty big. His fur is bright white except for a large patch of orange-brown on his side and his orange-brown head. His black-tinged ears are the triangle kind, not the floppy kind, and his nose is narrow and long, ending with a black, wet-looking nose. 

It’s only then that Stiles realizes the dog is close enough that he can even _see_ moisture on his nose. The dog lunges for him and Stiles stumbles back, saved from falling only by his mother’s hand in his. 

“Dakota, down!” The boy, who Stiles had all but forgotten about, pulls back on the leash, and Dakota skitters back a step, his mouth open in a soft pant. He’s not barking or growling or anything, just panting. His tail, which is curly and fringed with long white fur, waves lazily from side to side.

“It’s okay, Stiles, he just wants to say hello,” Claudia says, kneeling next to him again. Keeping her grip on Stiles’ hand tight, she holds out her other hand to the dog. Dakota inches forward, pressing his nose eagerly into Claudia’s hand, and after a few moments of sniffing, his tongue darts out and starts licking her with abandon. “See?” Claudia says quietly. “He’s just giving me kisses.” 

“But he jumped!” Stiles protests, trying to step back again. 

“He won’t hurt you, I promise,” Claudia reassures him. “Why don’t you try letting him sniff your hand?” 

Stiles purses his lips but slowly raises his hand anyway, letting it hover awkwardly in front of him. The other boy lets the leash go a little slack, and--

The dog lunges again, this time making contact with Stiles’ hand. At the first touch of wet tongue and hot breath, Stiles recoils, this time pulling his other hand from Claudia’s grip. “No! He keeps jumping!”

“He’s just excited,” the other boy interjects. His floppy brown hair and dark eyes look familiar, but Stiles is too frazzled to figure out why. He figures this must be the Scott that Melissa called out for. “Watch!”

Before Stiles can even process what he’s saying, Scott is stepping back and squatting slightly. “Dakota! Dakota, look!” he says, his voice huge and bright and overly-excited. When the dog turns around to look at him, he flings the hand not holding the leash out to the side before patting his chest. “Dakota, come here!”

Tail wagging even harder, the dog leaps at him, his white paws landing on the boy’s shoulders, his tongue dragging over the boy’s cheek again and again. “See?” Scott asks, laughing. “Excited!”

Stiles, who had originally tensed when the dog jumped, frowns. Scott is smiling, one hand buried in the soft white fur of Dakota’s back, the other running over the orange-brown fur of his head. It looks nothing at all like the scene from the scary movie, and everything like some of the scenes in _Lassie_. 

“I don’t…” Stiles clenches his fists nervously. “I don’t want him to jump. Can I just…” It takes everything in him, but he unclenches one of the fists and holds it out. 

“Sure!” Scott says agreeably. “Dakota, stay down!” His voice is firm and authoritative in a way Stiles isn’t sure he could copy. 

Dakota still looks excited, but Scott keeps the leash taut, giving it a tug anytime the dog looks like he’s about to jump forward. Eventually he seems to get the point, standing still and watching Stiles with dark eyes and a lolling tongue until--

The fur on top of his head is softer than Stiles thought it would be. It’s short, but it’s not bristly like the stubble on his dad’s face. It gets even softer around the ears, looking almost life orange-y fluff. And he’s _warm_. Stiles has had stuffed animals, but Dakota feels nothing like them. 

The soft fur is suddenly replaced by a warm, wet tongue, and Stiles nearly flinches back in surprise. When he glances at Scott, though, the other boy is still smiling at him, like this is a good thing and not at all dangerous. As the seconds pass and the licks get slower and deeper, like Dakota is trying to scrape the taste off of his skin, Stiles even starts to smile. It kind of tickles. 

“Dakota loves kisses,” Scott says, nodding like this is an important fact. 

“He doesn’t bite?” Stiles asks him, eyeing the pointed white teeth that appear sporadically between licks. 

“If you’re playing tug-of-war, he might nip you by accident, but he doesn’t mean it,” Scott says. 

Stiles widens his eyes, but the casual way Scott says it gives him pause before he can really start freaking out. “Does it hurt?” 

Scott shrugs. “A bit. It’s just a little pinch, though.” In a flash, Scott reaches out and pinches the skin of Stiles’ forearm, his nails digging in. 

“Ow!” Stiles flinches away. 

“Scott!” Melissa says, her voice sharp. Stiles had forgotten she was standing there. He’d forgotten about his own parents, too. The adults are all standing together a few feet away, watching carefully, but Melissa steps forward with a frown on her face. “Don’t pinch!” 

Face falling, Scott’s eyes flick between her and Stiles. His fingers start twisting around and around the green leash, wrapping it around his hand like string. “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just wanted to…” He looks down at his hands, shoulders hunched.

Stiles looks down at his arm. The skin isn’t even red. He can’t even feel it anymore. Scott pinched him and it didn’t hurt for more than a second. He says that’s what it feels like when Dakota accidentally nips him. So even if Dakota does bite him, it won't be that bad. “That’s okay,” he says, grinning up at Scott. “It barely even hurt.” 

“Really?” Scott asks, smiling hesitantly. “Good!”

“Are you feeling better, Stiles?” Noah asks, coming forward to rest a hand on Stiles’ shoulder. He’s grinning like he finds something funny, but Stiles doesn’t know what. “Do you want to come inside with us while we do the paperwork, or do you want to stay out here with Scott and Dakota?” 

Stiles glances at Dakota, who’s started sniffing at Stiles’ tennis shoes, and then up at Scott, who’s bending down to scratch at Dakota’s side, mouth open in a soft coo. 

“I’ll stay here,” he decides, smiling up at his dad. 

An hour later, after Stiles has learned how to play fetch and tug-of-war, after he met a few more dogs and became fascinated with the different colors and textures of their fur, after he figured out that Scott goes to the same school and is in the classroom next to his, he climbs up into the car, Dakota’s leash in hand. The mini van’s backseat has been folded down to create a bigger trunk area, and after a little coaxing, Dakota weaves his way between the middle row and plunks himself down nervously. He looks a little more twitchy, his pants less content and more agitated. Stiles is fascinated. 

“Hey, Stiles,” Claudia says, and Stiles twists back around in his seat to find her holding out a brightly colored piece of paper. He looks at it carefully, but can’t read all the words. There’s a black silhouette of a dog in the middle, though, and he can’t help but think it looks sort of like Dakota. 

“It’s a flier,” Claudia explains, twisting around in her own seat. “Melissa puts on a Christmas party every year to help raise money for the sanctuary, and she’s looking for volunteers to help set it all up. Would you be interested in coming back here to help out?”

Before today, Stiles would have said no. But Dakota has gotten to his feet and is standing next to Stiles’ seat, nose nudging into the crook of Stiles’ elbow, and Stiles already has plans to play with Scott at recess on Monday. He reaches an arm around Dakota’s neck. 

He grins brightly at his mom. “Yes, please!” 

\-------

Roxy is a German Shepherd. The words are foreign to Stiles. 

“What does that even _mean_?” he asks, grunting as he drags a bag of dog food over the dirt floor of the barn. 

“A shepherd is someone that herds sheep,” Scott says with the voice of someone who just learned this himself. He rips open his own bag of dog food and reaches for an old plastic cup. “German Shepherds are bred to herd sheep. They make sure none of the sheep escape and hurt themselves. Collies are herding dogs, too, actually.”

Stiles grins at the mention of his own dog. Now that he thinks about it, it makes sense that Dakota is a herding dog. For the past three years, Dakota has been doing his best to lay down exactly where people need to walk, exactly when they need to walk there. Doorways, the middle of the kitchen floor, next to the dining table, it doesn’t seem to matter, because Dakota will plant himself there at a moment’s notice. His mom always said that Dakota was just trying to keep track of everybody and make sure they were all in the same place. _He’s watching over us,_ Claudia would say, her eyes bright with humor even as she almost tripped over the hulking ball of white fluff. 

The smiles slips from his face. His eyes get fuzzy and unfocused, and there’s suddenly a lump in his throat that’s making it difficult to breathe. His body keeps moving without him telling it to, ripping open the bag of dog food, grabbing his own plastic cup, reaching inside to scoop out some of the pungent kibble inside. When he goes to pour the food into one of the dozens of dog bowls scattered inside the barn, the tears welling up in his eyes blur his vision, and he ends up pouring most of it onto the barn floor. 

“Stiles? Are you okay?” Scott’s voice is barely discernible through the harsh breaths Stiles is trying to push in and out of his body. 

Stiles tries to scoop out more kibble, but his hands are starting to shake. He drops the cup inside the bag and pulls out his hand, his fingertips stained with brown crumbs. His legs are weak, his feet are numb, he doesn’t feel good--

He falls onto his butt before he can even try to sit down gently. The impact hurts, the pain clearing his head for a second, but then the lump in his throat is back and he still can’t breathe. 

“Stiles? Stiles!” Scott’s hands are on his shoulders. Stiles focuses as much as he can, just barely able to make out Scott’s tiny form huddled in front of him, dark brown eyes swimming with concern and just a little bit of panic. He’s making Scott upset. 

He grabs onto Scott’s shirt. It feels good to hold something, but it doesn’t feel good to be held. Stiles normally loves it when Scott hugs him or grabs him or rough houses with him, but right now, his hands feel hot, feel like they’re trapping him. He pushes at them feebly, and Scott immediately lets go. 

“Stiles, I don’t….” Scott trails off, brow furrowing. “Hold on,” he murmurs, standing up and running to the doorway of the barn. Maybe he’s going to get Stiles’ parents. Except, no, he can’t be getting both of them, because Mom--

Whatever Scott is shouting across the field gets lost in the roaring in Stiles’ ears. His hands flutter around his own face uselessly before pulling at the collar of his t-shirt. He just wants to breathe--

Scott is suddenly back, and he’s not alone. “Stiles, this is Roxy,” is all Stiles hears before a wet nose is pushing at his neck. Flinching, Stiles turns and puts his hands between him and the dog suddenly pushing into his space. 

She looks like she’s probably the same size as Dakota, but her fur is wiry instead of fluffy, so it makes her look smaller. Her fur is darker, too, made up of dark browns and blacks with just a few spots of light brown. Her sharp white teeth stand out against the dark fur of her muzzle, her lips parted in a happy pant. Her ears are like Dakota’s, triangle-shaped and sticking up. Her legs are thin and a lighter brown, and he winces when she swipes a paw at his leg. 

“She’s really friendly,” Scott says urgently. “Try petting her.” 

Stiles can’t seem to focus on the dog long enough, though, and it isn’t helped by the fact that she’s wiggling where she stands, her tail clearly wagging behind her. 

“Roxy, lay down!” 

The dog immediately drops to the floor, her paws in front of her. Her mouth is still open in a contented pant, but her body is still. Stiles lifts a hand and hesitantly places it on her back, fingers digging into the surprisingly soft fur. 

The relief happens slowly. Stiles still can’t really breathe, still feels too hot and cold all at the same time, but he keeps running his hand down Roxy’s back and head, playing with her ears, scratching under her chin. Eventually, without him even realizing it, the lump in his throat dissolves, and the tears in his eyes start to dry. Holding onto Roxy feels like holding onto Scott did, like it’s grounding him to the moment. 

The second he realizes he’s no longer heaving for breath, he buries his face in Roxy’s fur in relief, his arms around her neck. 

“Stiles?” 

Startled, Stiles looks up. Scott looks unsure of himself, his hands wringing together, hovering a few feet away. Too far away, as far as Stiles is concerned. Reaching as far as he can over Roxy’s body, he manages to snatch the material of Scott’s pants and tug him forward. Scott gets the message immediately, sitting down next to Stiles and putting his arm around Stiles’ shoulder. They’re silent for a few minutes, wordlessly running their fingers through Roxy’s fur.

“I was just reading a book about how dogs can help people who are lonely or scared,” Scott says, the words echoing in the freezing air of the barn. “They’re called therapy dogs. I thought maybe Roxy could help you feel better.”

It was a panic attack. The doctors had to explain what it was, why Stiles sometimes couldn’t breathe or move or think. And even without knowing all of that, without knowing what it was, Scott knew how to help him.

“You know how my mom’s not here this year?” Stiles asks suddenly.

“Yeah, I did think it was weird,” Scott admits. “You guys always come help us with the Christmas party. It’s, like, a tradition, at this point. But your dad said she’s still not feeling well?”

 _Not feeling well._ Like she has the flu, or something. 

Not that Stiles can blame Scott for thinking that. He hasn’t really told him about what’s been going on, even if he’s had the time during class, recess, or the sleepovers they have nearly every weekend. If he talks about it, if someone besides his family knows, then it becomes real. If Scott can smile and go about his day thinking that Stiles’ mom is going to be just fine, then maybe Stiles can, too. The only other person who could spill his secret is Melissa; she’s a nurse, and enough of her shifts have been in the long-term care unit that she knows what’s going on. But she must have seen something in Stiles’ face whenever she saw them, must have sensed what was going through his head, because she hasn’t told Scott, and Stiles is grateful. He just wants to pretend it’s not real, pretend everything is okay, which mostly means running around with Scott, causing mischief and taking care of the dogs in the sanctuary. 

But he can’t. Not anymore. The last time they visited his mom in the hospital, it hadn’t been good news. Time is running out. 

“She’s really sick. She has something called fronto...frontal....” Stiles grits his teeth in frustration. He can’t even pronounce whatever it is that’s ruining his life. “She has a kind of brain disease. It’s making her different, making her mean and scared, and now they’re saying she might...she might not…” He leans his head down on Scott’s shoulder, eyes welling up again. 

Scott strokes a hand down Stiles’ arm like he had been stroking it down Roxy’s back. Normally, Stiles would be offended at being pet like a dog, but the contact feels nice. 

“They’re saying she might not ever get better,” he continues haltingly. “She might _die_ like this.” 

Scott’s hand pauses, gripping Stiles like a vice. “Stiles, I’m….”

Stiles just shakes his head. He moves his arm so that Scott’s fingers slip between his own. 

He’s not sure how long they sit there, holding hands and petting Roxy. When they do eventually stand up to resume the task of feeding the sanctuary dogs, the air still has a late-December bite. He’s still tired, his limbs feeling weak and shaky. He’s still going to see his mom in the hospital right after the party. 

But with Scott moving around somewhere to his right, with Roxy darting between the two like she’s trying to keep track of their whereabouts, he feels….better. Not good, barely even okay, but better. 

“Ready?” Scott asks once all the bowls have been filled. He’s holding out a rusty brass bell, a tentative smile on his face. 

Stiles grins back. It’s probably weak and watery compared to his usual smiles, but Scott beams at him all the same. 

Stiles shakes the bell in the air, wincing at the loud ringing it makes. There’s a flurry of barking from outside the barn, and the sound of dozens of steadily approaching footsteps, and then--

Dogs are swirling around them like a storm, fur flying everywhere as they dart to whatever bowl they can find, and Stiles’ grin gets wider. 

Yeah. Definitely better. 

\-------

Allie is a Saint Bernard. She’s probably the biggest dog Stiles has ever seen. 

“We just rescued her from an overcrowded shelter,” Melissa murmurs, running her hand over Allie’s fluffy white head. “They were going to put her down next week.”

Even though it’s been six years since he got his own dog, Stiles still hesitates before reaching out a hand to pet her. It’s just that she’s so _big_. 

Allie, for her part, seems just as hesitant, backing up slightly as Stiles advances. Stiles has learned from the best, though; instead of getting any closer, he simply crouches down where he stands, his hand held out with the palm facing up. He’s seen Scott do this countless times, and he always makes it work, somehow, charming each and every dog that passes through their gate. 

It takes a few moments, but Allie eventually inches closer, her wet nose snuffling curiously around Stiles’ hand. Once she’s had a chance to investigate, Stiles slowly twists his hand so he can stroke her chin. When she doesn’t flinch or snap, he gets bolder, burying his fingers in the thick fur at her neck. 

It feels so different from petting Dakota; where Stiles’ own dog is lean and delicate, Allie is stocky and full of square angles. Drool coats the fur under her chin, hanging down in globs from her droopy jowls, and her ears are thick and floppy. She’s a mixture of whites, blacks, and orange-brown, the colors blocky and solid over her body. 

“Scott is going to love her,” Stiles says softly. 

Melissa smiles at him. She looks tense and happy all at once, but it makes sense. Stiles is feeling it, too. Part of him wonders if he made everything up and Scott really isn’t coming home today. Maybe this is all a dream, and he’ll wake up tomorrow in the same Scott-less existence he’s been living in for the past six months. 

“How’s it going in here?” Noah pokes his head into the barn, straining slightly under the weight of the card table he’s carrying. Stiles immediately gets up to help him, grabbing one end of the table. 

“We’re ready to set up, I think,” Melissa says, straightening up and putting her hands on her hips. “The dogs have been fed, the bowls cleared away, and the barn has been swept. Almost party time!” Her enthusiasm is somewhat faked, but neither Stiles nor his dad comment on it. 

“Sounds good,” Noah says. He and Stiles haul the table over to the corner of the barn and wrench the folded legs open. “Is all the food ready?” 

“It’s all waiting in the kitchen, we just need to bring it outside.” Melissa runs a gloved hand through her wild curls and heaves out a sigh. When Stiles looks up at her face, she’s already staring back, her eyes unreadable. “Hey, guys?” She waits until Noah is looking at her, too, before continuing. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I know it’s been weird, with Scott staying at his dad’s, but I couldn’t have kept this place running without you.”

She looks so tired. He knows that, under the gloves, her knuckles are dry and cracked from the constant hand-washing she does at the hospital. He knows there are bruise-like shadows under her eyes from a constant lack of sleep, poorly hidden by her make-up. He knows it hasn’t been easy, working full-time while also keeping the sanctuary running, all while her son is off with the man who left them. 

That’s why Stiles and his dad have been coming around more often. Second Chance normally gets by with the help of local volunteers, but there’s always a shortage this time of year with the holidays taking up everyone’s time. So Stiles and his dad have been driving over to help feed the dogs and clean the kennels whenever they have the spare time. Stiles even rides his bike over from school if Noah’s too busy to come with him. 

It’s helped all of them, if Stiles is being honest. Melissa doesn’t have to worry about the dogs as much, and the Stilinskis have something to take their mind off of the holiday season that still feels much emptier without Claudia. Normally Scott would be the one taking Stiles’ mind off of how much he misses his mom, but he’s been in Sacramento for half a year. 

Being around the dogs is the only time Stiles doesn’t feel quite so alone. The dog sanctuary is where Stiles and Scott met, where they’ve spent most of their time since becoming friends. If he keeps himself distracted enough, Stiles can almost pretend Scott is just on the other side of the property, fixing a fence or scooping dog crap or rolling around in the snow with half a dozen dogs at once. 

But now he doesn’t have to pretend. Scott is coming back, even if it’s just for the holidays. 

“Of course, Melissa,” Noah says gruffly. “We wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” 

Allie suddenly darts out of the open barn door, letting out a low, booming bark. Frowning, Stiles stares after her. It takes him a few seconds, but eventually he hears what she must have: the sound of tires crunching over gravel. The Christmas party doesn’t start for almost four hours, so it can’t be a guest, which means it must be--

“Scott!” Stiles takes off running, almost slipping on a patch of ice in the doorway. He weaves through the dogs scattered around the back yard and skids to a halt at the chainlink fence separating him from the front yard. He peers through the gaps, his fingers and nose pressed against the cold metal, ignoring the dogs weaving around him in curiosity.

Sure enough, a black SUV is rolling down the driveway. It’d be intimidating if Stiles didn’t know who was waiting inside. 

“Scott!” He fumbles with the latch of the gate, making it rattle obnoxiously before he manages to get it open and slip out into the front yard. In his haste, though, he isn’t careful about pushing the dogs away, and Allie manages to slip out with him, her hulking body way more graceful than he would have guessed. “Wait, Allie, stop!” he cries when she takes off towards the car. 

The car stops as soon as she gets too close for comfort. The driver’s side window rolls down, and Stiles can hear Rafael trying to shoo her away from the tires. The passenger side door opens right away, though. “I’ll get her, Dad!”

Forgetting about Allie, Stiles rounds the edge of the SUV. There, hastily shoving his hat on to his head and his fingers into his gloves, is Scott. His hair is a bit longer than it was when Stiles last saw him, the ends sticking out from under his beanie. He also looks a little thinner. Or his legs do, at least; his upper body is hidden under a puffy winter coat. 

“Scott!” Stiles says one more time before launching himself at his best friend. Scott isn’t ready for the impact, and they nearly capsize onto the frozen gravel driveway, but Stiles manages to keep them upright at the last second. He keeps his arms wrapped around Scott’s waist and buries his nose into the soft material of Scott’s winter coat. 

“Stiles!” Scott shouts back, just as excited. His arms latch onto Stiles’ neck like a vice. 

Stiles plans on staying like that for at least ten minutes, but something big and wet shoves its way between their bodies. When Stiles reluctantly pulls away, he sees Allie, her tongue still lolling out of her mouth. 

Scott laughs in delight. “Who’s this beautiful puppy?” he asks, kneeling down in front of her. She backs up from him immediately, her wariness beating out her curiosity, but Scott doesn’t seem bothered. He holds out his hand much like Stiles had, a warm smile on his face. Stiles watches with an odd feeling in his chest as Allie sniffs at Scott’s hand for a few moments before resting her chin in his palm, tongue lolling out of her mouth.

“Her name is Allie,” Stiles tells him, reaching down to scratch at her flank. She wiggles her butt, clearly warming up to the attention. 

“Scott?” 

Scott and Stiles whirl around, and Scott nearly trips in his haste. “Mom!” he yells. He throws himself at her, and Stiles feels a lump in his throat at the look of love and relief stretching across Melissa’s cold-flushed face. 

Noah and Rafael are standing off to the side and exchanging a tense handshake. Stiles’ dad has never said anything in front of Stiles, but he’s overheard enough conversations and phone calls to know that the two men aren’t on the best of terms. There’s too much shared history, too much intimate knowledge shared between the two families. 

They don’t usually talk about their families, but Stiles can remember one night over the past summer, just before Scott left for Sacramento. They sat in the barn, each of them holding one of the lab puppies that had just been born, and they talked about everything. How Scott still has his dad, technically, but it’s tempered with the knowledge that he didn’t love him or Melissa enough to stay, that he would rather take Scott away from everything he knows than give up his job. How Stiles doesn’t have his mom anymore, will never have her again, but he will never doubt that she loved him and his dad more than anything else in the world, will never have to wonder why he isn’t enough. How their parents both work so hard to keep themselves afloat, and how they can never really hide the strain of it.

And now, watching how Rafael and Melissa avoid even looking at each other, watching Rafael get back in the car and drive away without more than a wave at his only child, watching Scott’s smile dim like the desaturated December sun, Stiles can’t help but wonder if he and Scott are starting to show the strain as well. 

“How did this happen?” Melissa asks, her harsh tone bringing Stiles back to attention. He looks over at them, curious, and sees her thumb stroking gingerly over Scott’s cheek. 

Stiles hadn’t noticed it earlier, too caught up in his excitement, but there’s a giant bruise spreading under Scott’s eye and across his cheekbone. As Stiles gets closer, Allie trailing behind him, he can see how Scott’s eye is tinged with red, like a blood vessel burst. 

“It was just some kids at school,” Scott murmurs, reaching up and dragging her hand back down. “I’m fine, Mom.” 

“This isn’t fine, Scott. Who did this to you? How often does this happen?”

Scott looks down at his snow boots. Stiles frowns. “Just some kids, Mom. It’s not a big deal.” 

“It is, Scott. What did your father say about it?”

Shrugging, Scott starts wringing his gloved hands together. “He didn’t really say anything, just signed me up for some kind of martial arts class. Something about learning how to defend myself. But um…” Scott winces, and Stiles clenches his fist. “Some of the kids ended up being in the class, too, so I asked if I could quit, but he won’t let me. Can you talk to him, Mom?” he asks. “I really don’t wanna go to that class anymore.” 

Melissa clenches her jaw. “Of course, sweetie. I’ll talk to him.” She puts a hand on the back of his head and tugs him in for a hug. Her eyes catch on Stiles and Allie, and she clears her throat. “Have you met Allie?” she asks. 

“Yeah!” Scott answers enthusiastically, the tense mood sliding right off of him. He turns and sees her standing by Stiles’ side, and reaches down to pet her. “Stiles was introducing us! She’s beautiful,” he croons. 

“She’s going to need a lot of love and attention while she’s staying with us,” Melissa warns him, running a hand down Allie’s back. “She was rescued from an abusive house. And then she was almost killed in the shelter, too, but we swooped in just in time.” 

Scott nods seriously. “Stiles and I will take good care of her,” he says, looking over at Stiles with a warm smile. 

Stiles isn’t sure why that does him in, but he finds tears welling up in his eyes again. To hear Scott lump them together so easily after being separated for so long, to think of them as a unit again--

Things aren’t perfect. Scott is only here for the holidays, and then he’s going back to Sacramento, even if he doesn’t want to. Something about his dad having a more stable income and access to better child-care. Something about how Melissa worked too much. 

The first goodbye was difficult enough. Stiles cried for days, and his dad had to physically tear him away from Scott when Rafael showed up. Stiles doesn’t even want to think about what the second goodbye will feel like. 

But right now he can ignore that. Right now he can focus on how good it feels to be standing here with Scott and Melissa and his dad, the remnants of their families. 

Scott is the one who returned, but it’s Stiles who feels like he’s finally home.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice cracking slightly as he runs his hand through Allie’s scruff. “We’ll take care of her.”

\-------

Harley is a greyhound. But more importantly, she’s _wily_. 

She’s a retired racing dog from a nearby racetrack. Stiles expected her to be full of energy and in need of constant exercise, and she definitely can be, when the moment suits her. Ironically, though, she’s probably the laziest dog Stiles has ever met. He only finds out later on that she was retired early because she never truly got a handle on the training and discipline it takes to be a career racer. 

More specifically, her trainers could never shake her of an inexplicable taste for luxury. 

“Are you sure you locked the gate?” Stiles asks.

Scott doesn’t even look at him, too busy piling empty paper plates into his arms. “Yes, Stiles, I’m sure. Why are you so worried?”

“She got into my Jeep, dude. She _peed_ in my _Jeep_. Do you know how long it took to get the smell out of the upholstery?”

“She tore up my favorite sneakers, but you don’t see me acting paranoid,” Scott murmurs, fumbling for a used napkin as it flutters to the ground. “Do you want to help me with these, or are you just going to stand there?” 

Stiles raises an eyebrow and takes a sip from paper cup. “Scott, the party isn’t even halfway done. Cleaning up is for after.”

“You don’t help after, either,” Scott mutters, moving towards the giant trash can placed just outside the barn doors. 

“I already helped set up. Don’t get greedy.” Stiles follows him aimlessly, eyes darting around the backyard. The string lights hung up inside the barn are casting a warm glow that spills out onto the lawn, but the air is achingly cold, making Stiles’ fingers go numb around his drink. The tables are still set up, but no one is out here, everyone having moved inside as the sun set and the temperature dropped. That’s usually how it goes, though; the first few hours of the party are spent outside, with everyone fawning over the dogs, and then it moves inside the McCall’s house. The dogs scatter, at that point, most of them scampering off to find somewhere to sleep. 

Scott tosses the plates into the trash and turns back as if to keep cleaning, but Stiles snags his wrist. Scott feels solid even underneath his winter coat and Stiles’ woolen glove. Scott looks up at him, his eyes reflecting the glow from inside the barn, and Stiles’ grip tightens. “Come on, man, we’ll clean up later. I’m freezing my ass off out here. Let’s go inside.”

Scott purses his lips, glancing back inside the barn where trash still litters the tables. It looks like he’s going to argue, so Stiles tugs him forward, throwing an arm around his shoulders and tucking Scott into his side. He smells like the cologne Stiles got him to celebrate their first day of sophomore year, the scent even sharper in the cold air. “No, Scott, we’re done cleaning. It’s time to stuff our faces with hors d’oeuvres while avoiding awkward questions about what colleges we’re applying to.”

“Sounds awful,” Scott says, wrinkling his nose, but he puts an arm around Stiles’ waist anyway. Their boots crunch softly on the frosted grass as they move towards the back door. 

Something rustles behind them, and Stiles whips around, eyes narrowed. He peers carefully into the bushes lining the barn walls, but he sees no sign of a whip-thin tail or pointy ears. 

“You’re sure you locked the gate?” he asks as the step up onto the back porch. Scott just rolls his eyes and pushes open the door.

The Christmas party is still going strong when they step inside. The mud room is empty, but the voices coming from the kitchen and beyond are louder, and Stiles can hear the Christmas music filtering from the speakers he helped set up in the living room. When they pass through the kitchen door, a blast of warm air hits them, smelling strongly of food. It’s packed with people, only some of whom Stiles recognizes, but he and Scott manage to worm their way over to the food counter. Scott goes for the vegetable tray, the weirdo, but Stiles immediately grabs ten of the bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, piling them onto one of the red and green paper plates stacked in the corner. Scott looks over at him reproachfully. He takes a breath, probably to tell him off for taking so many, so Stiles just shoves one into his mouth. The look of outrage on Scott’s face is totally worth it, even when he retaliates by shoving a carrot up Stiles’ nose. 

They make the rounds, after that, stopping to chat with as many party guests as they can stand. A lot of them are regulars, people who come every year and who Scott and Stiles have known since they were kids. They chat with Deaton, who provides veterinary services for the dogs and gave Scott his first job. They talk to Talia, who has been donating to Second Chance since before they can remember. They even make an effort with Talia’s son, Derek, who Scott insists is nice but who consistently stands in the corner with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. 

A few of the guests are one-timers, too, but Stiles doesn’t particularly care about talking to them. They’re the people who have recently adopted one of their dogs or made one-time donations in fits of random generosity or are here to represent another shelter in another part of the state. For most of them, this is their first time attending the annual Second Chance Christmas party, and for most of them, it’ll also be their last. Stiles is perfectly happy to ignore them. 

Scott, however, is not. At least when it comes to one family in particular. 

“Oh, Allison is here!” he exclaims, pointing across the living room. Stiles follows his line of sight until he sees her. She’s standing with her dad and one of the volunteers, a small smile on her face.

Stiles frowns. “Cool,” he says, not even trying to sum up any enthusiasm. 

Allison and her parents are recent additions to Beacon Hills, only moving in at the beginning of the school year. Stiles had seen Allison around school, mostly in first hour, but neither he nor Scott ever really interacted with her. Then, a few weeks later, the Argents adopted two dogs from Second Chance, two black labs that had been trained as hunting dogs. This was all well and good, except Stiles hadn’t been there the day the Argents came to sign their paperwork, which proved to be a fatal mistake. When he showed up later that night, Scott couldn’t stop gushing over her. _She’s so cool, Stiles. And nice. And she loved seeing all the dogs. She even offered to volunteer a couple times a week, isn’t that awesome?_ On and on until a stone pit had formed in Stiles’ stomach. 

“We should go say hi,” Scott says, grabbing Stiles by the wrist and tugging him through the crowd. The room still looks the same, filled with the warm glow of the string lights and the cranberry-scented candles lining the coffee table, but what felt cozy only a minute ago now feels suffocating and overcrowded. 

“Why do I have to?” Stiles mumbles. “She’s your girlfriend.” The word tastes sour on his tongue, but he forces it out anyway. Scott and Allison have hung out together at least three times, at this point. _Studying,_ Scott claimed, but Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows what that means. He’s seen the dopey look in Scott’s eyes. 

Scott pauses suddenly, turning to face him. Someone jostles him from behind, pushing him impossibly close, and Stiles’ gaze gets stuck on the warm shade of his eyes. “Stiles, we’re not--”

“Harley!”

Eyes widening, Stiles whirls around just in time to see a familiar grey blur tear out of the kitchen and into the living room, weaving haphazardly between the bodies packed inside. _How’d she even get in?_ he wonders blandly.

“Oh, shit,” Scott whispers. 

The sound of Scott swearing knocks Stiles out of his stupor. “Harley, no!” he shouts, taking off after her. Party guests are looking around in confusion, unsure of what it is that’s just knocked into them, frowning when Stiles shoves past them. 

He finds her standing with her front paws supported on the buffet table, her thin nose buried in a plate of mini sausages. He reaches for her collar, but she slips away before he can get a grip on it, weaving through the crowd once more. 

“Harley!” he hears Scott call, his tone firm and authoritative, but of course the dog ignores him. She slips into the front hall, and Scott and Stiles nearly collide in their haste to follow her. They find her with her nose buried in a soft coat before grabbing at it with her teeth. Stiles watches in horror as, instead of pulling it off the coat rack, the motion just knocks the whole thing onto the wooden floor, the coat rack landing with a horrifying clatter. 

“Harley, _no!_ ” Stiles shouts, lunging for her collar. She tears away from him at the last second, bounding past them and up the staircase with the coat still in her mouth. 

“Crap,” Scott breathes, running after her. Stiles isn’t far behind, almost tripping himself over the downed coat rack as he runs for the stairs.

The only open door in the upstairs is to Melissa’s room. Scott crosses the threshold and freezes. “Crap, crap, crap.” 

Stiles inches past him and stares. “Shit.”

Harley has made herself a nest on the king-size bed, her thin body surrounded by most of the maroon decorative pillows Melissa brought out for the holiday season. Right in front of her, draped over her paws, is the coat she stole, and she’s currently tearing into it with her teeth. Bits of white filling litter the bedspread around her. Stiles feels like he’s stumbled onto the scene of a murder.

Scott breaks out of his shock first, grabbing at Harley’s collar one last time and managing to get a grip on it. “Come on,” he says, his voice somehow managing to stay gentle. Stiles is nearly vibrating with distress. 

“Whose coat is this?” he asks, tugging it out of Harley’s mouth. The coat isn’t unwearable, per se, but it’s now riddled with holes, some of the lining spilling out past the frayed edges of fabric. 

“I’m not sure,” Scott says. His voice may be gentle, but he’s making a point not to pet Harley the way she clearly wants him to, her lean body pressing into his side, her tongue lolling happily out of the side of her mouth. 

Stiles frowns at the coat before throwing it back on the bed. He doesn’t want to be the one who has to face the coat’s owner. He’ll mention it to Melissa on the way out. 

Despite her antics, Harley isn’t a difficult dog once she’s under control. She follows Scott without complaint, padding down the stairs without a care in the world for the chaos she’s just caused. Scott wisely chooses to get her outside through the front door rather than tugging her through the rest of the house, where the party guests seem to have forgotten all about the whirlwind that tore through them a few minutes ago. 

Stiles follows behind, hands stuffed in his pockets against the cold night air. “Is it too early to say I told you so?”

Scott glares at him over his shoulder. When they reach the gate to the backyard, he pulls out his key ring and rattles it way more than necessary. “The gate is locked, Stiles. She got in some other way.” 

“It’s the principle of the thing, Scott.” Stiles stands behind him, huddling against his warm back, chin hooked over Scott’s shoulder as he watches Scott fumble for the right key. “I knew she’d find a way to sneak inside _again_ , but you didn’t listen to me.” 

Finally finding the right key, Scott unlocks the gate and pushes it open, tugging Harley into the side yard by her collar. “That’s not a useful prediction, Stiles. You didn’t predict _how_.” He bumps his hip into Stiles’ a bit harder than Stiles thinks is necessary. 

Now that the adrenaline of the situation is fading, Stiles finds himself grinning. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he repeats, slipping through the gate after Scott. All he gets is another glare, but he doesn’t miss the way Scott’s lips quirk up in the corner. 

Harley trots over to the barn with no trouble, but as soon as Scott lets her go, she starts pawing at him, a low whine in her throat. She’s asking for attention, clearly unbothered by the damage she just caused in the pursuit of a comfy bed and a new toy. _What a spoiled brat,_ Stiles thinks fondly. 

Scott only hesitates for another few moments before caving in, his hands going around Harley’s head to scratch behind her ears. He never did have a lot of discipline when it came to cute dogs. Stiles loves to give him shit for it, but it’s also one of his favorite things to see. It gives him an excuse to cave, too; he kneels next to Scott, his own hands rubbing up and down Harley’s back, fingers running through her short grey hair. 

Stiles’ fond smile eventually fades. “Sorry you didn’t get a chance to talk to Allison. She’s probably still in there, if you want to head inside.”

Scott gives him a weird look, his hands still scratching under Harley’s chin. “I’m sure I’ll see her at school, it’s not a big deal.” He looks down at Harley, dipping his head to kiss her nose. “And she’s not my girlfriend.”

Stiles pauses, ignoring the way his heart starts pounding. “She’s not? I thought you guys--”

“We hung out a few times, but it never went anywhere. I think both of us have our minds elsewhere, you know?” Scott glances up at the house, the windows still glowing from the warm lights inside. “We’re good friends, though.”

For a moment, Stiles just stares at Scott’s profile, eyes flitting from his uneven jawline to the way his lashes fan out across his cheeks. Then he looks away, his cheeks inexplicably warm. “Oh. What do you mean your minds are elsewhere?”

Scott sits back on the ground, his legs spreading slightly to fit Harley in between them. He still isn’t looking at Stiles. “I, uh-- I guess we’re both interested in other things.” He clears his throat. “Other people.”

Stiles’ heart starts racing. “Oh. Okay.” _Who, Scott? Who are you interested in?_ But Scott’s face looks carefully blank, distant, not nervous or terrified or like his heart is about to pound out of his chest. He looks calm. Stiles can’t relate. “That makes sense.” 

“Yeah.” Scott finally glances up at him, grinning. He tugs on Stiles’ sleeve until he’s forced to collapse next to him, their sides pressed together, Harley stepping gingerly between their sprawled legs. “Sit down, Stiles. I have a feeling we’ll be here for a while.” 

His chest still hurts, but Stiles can’t help but smile back, even if he can’t keep his gaze on Scott for more than a second. Because even if he still feels a step away from a heart attack, even if he’s not entirely sure why Scott’s vague confession has sent him into a tailspin, even if he still doesn’t want to examine exactly why it’s such a relief that he and Allison aren’t actually dating--

It’s freezing outside, the wind biting into Stiles’ fingers and face and slipping through the threads of his sweater. The party has clearly resumed without them, the music just audible in the silent winter air. He can feel the frost under his butt starting to melt and soak into his jeans. 

But Scott is smiling at him over Harley’s wiggling grey body, and there’s nowhere he’d rather be. 

\-------

Luke is a husky, and Stiles named him after _Star Wars,_ and he’s probably some kind of guardian angel. 

They’re incredibly luck that no one else was on the road. Stiles can see the skid marks in the snow where his tires crossed over into the opposite lane, looping around and around like crop circles. If there had been even one car driving in the opposite direction, Stiles would have hit them almost head on. Instead, he managed to grind to a halt without really hitting anything, his tires lined up almost perfectly with the shoulder of the road. 

As it is, he’s still shaking. His heart is somehow pumping too hard and not hard enough, his chest aching with the intensity of his heartbeat while his extremities have gone cold and almost numb. He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been sitting here, car shut off, but it’s long enough that the heat inside has dissipated. His breathing is fast and raw, the chilled air scraping against his throat and coming out of his mouth in small puffs of condensation. The dark night air seems heavy and oppressive without his headlights to break it up. 

He whirls around, eyes roving around wildly before finding Luke huddled in the footwell between the the passenger seat and the backseat, exactly where he had fallen during the Jeep’s wild tailspin. He’s a bit hard to make out, his dark gray fur blending into the shadows. He’s shaking, tail tucked between his legs and a low whine building in his throat, but he’s uninjured. In his panic, though, Stiles can’t seem to remember that. Every time he turns around, it only takes a few seconds for him to forget, to think that Luke is hurt, that he’s gone and killed one of Melissa’s dog. 

He’s not entirely sure how he lost control of the car. He knows the basics, of course; this is one of the coldest winters in recent memory, and they had even gotten a few scattered snowstorms over the past couple of weeks. The storm last night had left a thin layer of white snow over everything but, more importantly, it left patches of black ice all over the roads. 

One moment he’d been fine, tapping his hands against the steering wheel, laughing at the way Luke was trying to walk across the backseat on unsteady legs, and the next--

But he’s okay. Luke is okay, as far as he can tell. Shaken, but unharmed. 

Roscoe, it would seem, is not that lucky. 

It takes a minute, but Stiles eventually realizes that his car is indeed shut off, despite him not shutting it off himself. When he twists the key in the ignition, nothing happens. The engine sputters a bit, ticking from underneath the hood, but it doesn’t turn over. 

He’s on a back road. There aren’t even streetlights this far out of town, let alone houses or grocery stores or gas stations. There’s nothing but a sky full of stars and an increasingly creepy forest hovering on either side of the road. He’s all alone on the side of the road in a car that won’t work. In the middle of the night. In mid-December. 

“Fuck!” He slaps at the steering wheel. Luke gives a low whine from the back, and Stiles twists around. Luke is looking a little more steady, now that the car isn’t moving, but his ears are still flattened to his head. “I’m sorry, buddy, I don’t mean to scare you.”

Taking a deep breath, he turns back to face the front. His phone, which had previously been sitting on the passenger seat, is now face down on the dirty footwell beneath the glove box. Unbuckling, Stiles reaches forward, straining his arms until he can snatch it off the floor. 

It’s not broken, thankfully, even if the screen is smudged with mud. He even has over half of his battery. The problem is not with the phone, though; it’s who he’s going to call. 

He knows where he is. He’s been driving for almost four hours, meaning his dad and Melissa and everyone in Beacon Hills are four hours away from him. Stiles had been in the home stretch of his trip when he spun out, though. So there is someone who’s only half an hour away. 

Unbelievably, though, Stiles puts off making the call. His thumb hovers over the phone app, but he can’t make himself dial the number. He’s tempted to call his dad anyway, to make him drive almost two hours to give Stiles a ride home, because this is not how he wanted to start tonight.

He dials the number before he can keep talking himself out of it, turning the phone on speaker and holding it up near his face. The ringing is loud in the quickly freezing air inside the car, right up until it abruptly cuts off. 

“Stiles?” 

“Hey, Scott.” He manages to sound casual, despite feeling anything but. 

“What’s up?”

 _I’m stuck in my car on the side of the road in the freezing cold._ “Not much. What’s up with you?”

Scott sighs over the phone. There’s a distant clatter, like he’s set the phone down on a hard surface, and then his voice is distant and tinny. Stiles must be on speaker-phone, too. “Oh, you know. Sitting around in my jammies, sucking at _Uncharted_ , hating my boss for making me work today. The usual. How’d the party go? I’m bummed I missed it.”

Stiles takes a moment to just listen to Scott puttering around on the other end of the phone. He hears what might be the refrigerator door opening and closing, the clatter of something being poured into a bowl, the scrape of silverware against ceramic. It’s probably a bowl of cereal, and it’s probably not the first of the night. He’s probably wearing his favorite sweats, the gray ones that are wearing out at the bottom since they’re a bit too long and he’s constantly walking on the hems. He’s probably nestled back into the middle of his sofa, blankets piled around him like they usually are. He’s probably comfortable and cozy and not about to freeze to death in his own car. 

“The party was alright. Nobody missed you, though.” _I always miss you._

Scott hums. His words come out garbled, like they’re filtered through a mouth full of half-chewed Cheerios. “Why would they? I’m sure you were more than enough entertainment.” 

“I know, right? I’m a good solo act. This might even be a good time to tell you that I’m only friends with you because of your dog hook-up.” _I stole a dog from your mom because I thought it would make you happy and I drove almost four hours to come see you._

“Naturally,” Scott says, giggling. “As soon as that well dries up, you’ll be long gone.”

“Absolutely.” _Sometimes I worry that you’ll be the one to leave me._ “The clock is ticking.” 

“How heartbreaking. And here I thought you loved me.” 

Stiles’ fingers have started to go numb from the cold. His shoulders are tense, and he’s starting to shiver, the hoodie he’s wearing not nearly enough protection against the below-freezing temperature outside. His teeth clack together uncomfortably. But after Scott’s words, his face feels undeniably hot. 

_That’s actually what I called to talk to you about. I’m in love with you and I have been for a long time and you have no idea and I couldn’t take it anymore. Also, I’m stuck on the side of the road and might lose my toes to frostbite._ But he can’t form the words. He can’t really form any words. 

There’s a low whine behind him, and Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin. Whirling around, he sees Luke poke his head between the front seats. He puts a paw on top of the center console, almost like a question. 

Despite himself, Stiles grins. “Yeah, buddy, come on up here,” he says, patting his thigh. He watches as Luke grins back at him, his own breath steaming in front of him, and awkwardly clambers over the console. He ends up on Stiles’ lap, front paws digging almost painfully into Stiles’ thigh, back paws hunched against the inside edge of Stiles’ seat. He’s really too big to be a proper lapdog, but neither of them seem to care. 

“Are you in the barn? Are you with one of the pups?” Scott asks, a smile in his voice. 

Stiles clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m with Luke.” Not technically a lie. 

“And how’s our boy doing?”

 _Our boy._ Stiles buries his free hand into the warm fur at the back of Luke’s neck, scratching idly. _Our boy._ Luke is still panting, his breath smelling like the bacon Stiles snuck him earlier, but he takes a moment to lick at Stiles’ cheek. His body is warm against Stiles’ trembling body. This is probably the first time Stiles has ever had a potentially life-saving cuddle. _Our boy._

Stiles can’t even remember when Scott first started referring to the Second Chance dogs as theirs, as Stiles’ and his. They became a unit so long ago, and so naturally, that Stiles probably didn’t even notice when the possessive pronouns changed. All he knows is that he can’t imagine a life where anything that’s his, anything that matters, isn’t also Scott’s. 

“Scott, I’m in love with you.”

Shit. That’s not how it was supposed to go. Stiles’ eyes widen, and his heart might actually be frozen in his chest. 

The silence on the other end of the phone is deafening. 

“Oh my god,” Stiles murmurs. “Oh my god.” His voice gets progressively louder and louder until Luke is looking over at him in alarm, squirming as if he wants to back away from Stiles. “It wasn’t supposed to come out like that. What the hell?” He barely manages to resist the urge to open his car door and chuck his phone out onto the pavement. 

“Stiles--”

“I was supposed to be there with you! It was supposed to be in person, not over the phone! Who says _I’m in love with you_ over the phone?” Luke has passed alarmed and moved right into concern, his tongue lapping over Stiles’ cheek again and again as if to lick away his distress. 

“Stiles, it’s--”

“Why would I even do that? You didn’t even say anything that out of the ordinary. Aren’t these kinds of things supposed to meaningful?”

“Stop--”

“You’re mad. You’re upset. You’re uncomfortable. You don’t have to pretend to say it back, you don’t have to like me at all, you can tell me to fuck off and never come back.”

“I’m trying to--”

“Scott, I’m sorry.” Stiles buries his face in Luke’s side, the fur soft against his closed eyelids. “I’m so sorry I just blurted it out like that. I’m sorry you had to miss the Christmas party. I’m sorry I didn’t blow it off to come be with you. You’re not that far away, I could have done it. I missed you so much. I always miss you. It’s starting to scare me. I--”

“Stiles, please stop.” 

Dim yellow lights shine in Stiles’ side mirror. He watches distantly as a car whizzes by him on the road, completely uncaring of his car’s hulking carcass. That may have been his only chance at hitching a ride into town. He can’t find it in him to care. 

“--nothing to be sorry for,” Scott is saying. “I think I….I’m pretty sure I love you, too, okay? So shut your damn mouth already.”

Stiles sits upright, banging his head too hard against his headrest. Luke, who clearly has had enough, stumbles back over the center console and curls up on the passenger seat. “You’re shitting me.”

Scott laughs, but it sounds nervous. “Um. No? I’m not?”

For as long as Stiles has pictured this moment, he’s having a hard time processing it now that it’s here. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a buffering symbol hovering above his head. After a moment of stunned silence, though, his instincts kick in. “You’re _pretty sure_? That’s a little lackluster, Scott. I expected fireworks.” He bites the inside of his cheek. Should he be joking? Is that inappropriate? What if Scott gets offended? What if--

“You’re the one who blurted it out over the phone, fuckhead.”

Stiles barks out a laugh, because that’s fair. 

He’s still fucked. His car is still dead, probably in need of a new battery or engine repairs he can’t afford. His toes are still numb inside his boots, and the trembling resumed almost as soon as he didn’t have Luke’s body heat on his lap. He’s still going to get an ass-kicking from his dad as soon as he wakes up and finds Stiles and his car gone without a trace. Unless Melissa gets to him first, of course. He stole one of her dogs, after all. 

Stiles has been through worse, of course. But now he’s not sure he’s ever felt better. 

“How about I come home tomorrow?” Scott asks. “Fuck my boss. I’ll tell him I broke my leg or something.”

“That’s a bad lie, Scott. We’d have to actually break your leg in order to make it believable.”

“I’m nothing if not thorough. So how about it? I’ll see you tomorrow? I can probably make it there by noon.”

Stiles glances at Luke. He’s staring at Stiles with something that looks like the doggy form of exasperation, his warm brown eyes eerily similar to Scott’s. “About that,” he starts. “I may have brought the Christmas party to you.” 

It turns out Stiles didn’t have to worry about his dad or Melissa kicking his ass; as soon as he found Stiles’ car on the side of the road, Scott did it for them. Stiles would normally resent being lectured the entire thirty minute drive to Scott’s apartment, but he’s too distracted by the warm dog in his lap and the equally warm hand intertwined with his over the stick shift. 

It’s only his frozen body that keeps him from attacking Scott as soon as they’re in the apartment. If he could feel his toes or his fingers or his lips or his ears, he would have made a move. As it is, being in love doesn’t actually cure all ailments, up to and including near-hypothermia. He nearly brains himself on the edge of the rub while stripping out of his jeans, and he has never felt less sexy. 

In the end, it’s probably a good thing. Cuddling up on Scott’s couch, covered in blankets and a softly snoring dog, the room lit only by the soft white lights wrapped around Scott’s skimpy, bargain-bin Christmas tree--

It all makes for a pretty decent first kiss. Even if that kiss is interrupted by a curious nose shoved between their faces. Scott laughs as Luke licks at his chin.

“See? This is what you miss when you bail on us. No more skipping out on the Christmas party,” Stiles orders, scratching behind Luke’s ears. “You’re messing with tradition, man.”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, reaching out and grabbing at Stiles’ hand. “I think it worked out pretty well this year.” His smile is the warmest thing Stiles has felt all day, and it pulls him forward like a magnet.

Luke interrupts the second kiss, too, but neither of them seem to care.


End file.
